She asks me what’s wrong.
She asks what’s happened to my happiness.
She says that maybe “we need to start thinking about people who have it worse than we do.”
I do.
I think about that.
She’s the one who doesn’t get it.
Every day she comes home—silent.
When she speaks, it’s criticism.
Lament.
How she’s ready to “move on.”
Ready to “find something new.”
How this job—this life—is “too hard” for her.
I might feel more sympathy for her if she weren’t having mood swings.
If she wasn’t constantly up and down with hormones.
Or lack of.
I’ve heard her “you used to be” speech too many times.
It’s past being sentimental.
Now:
Annoying.
Nagging.
I’ve come to hate it.
It makes me want to go to college.
To get away.
To make my own decisions.
Whatever she suggests, I want to rebel against.
Here it was. Again. In the car this morning.
“You used to be happy.”
Yes. Yes, I did.
“What changed? Can you talk to me about it?”
Junior year. I want it to be over. No, I can’t talk to you about it, because I’ve heard all your pre-generated answers.
“This summer, we’re going to be active. You’re going to get your summer assignments done early so you don’t have to worry about them anymore.”
Great. I still want to leave. Spend my time in a dorm with people I don’t know. Away from you. Away from your command.
Away. From your so-called wisdom and attempts at insight.

Try not to torture my sister while I’m gone.